The Adventures of Sarchasmo V. Mr. Whiteprick and the Good ol’ Romantics

The Adventures of Sarchasmo V. Mr. Whiteprick and the Good ol’ Romantics

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Praise:

“Best evacuate your bladder before sitting down to read this one. It’s that funny.” –Callie Press

The Indie World is Out of Whack Again and Sarchasmo is Back to Mete Out Fair Justice.

And you know that when he gets to doling out retribution all the ladies giggle. This one features a villain more villainous than any Lex Luther or Joker. This one suffers from an insidiously evil stench. Sniff!

Sarchasmo has been hired by the Obsessive Cherry Blossom as she feels slighted by being tossed eViolently from her favorite group of eWriters. This smutpunk transgender revenge tale follows some disgruntled writers, a band of missed commas gone rogue, and a loincloth wearing savage as they find the illustrious Mr. Whiteprick looking for blood.

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Description

In stormed Cockslappicus in his gilded codpiece like he was the head of the Spanish Inquisition. No, that’s culturally insensitive. In stormed Cockslappicus in a loin cloth with a blow dart and thwwwaaackkkkkkk! The blowdart hit the wall behind Mr. Whiteprick.

“Never!” Mr. Whiteprick jumped up and started to run away. “You’ll never take me alive, Cockslappicus.” He turned the corner and would have escaped easily as Cockslappicus was still getting his thick Latino meat inside the loin cloth (he didn’t want to upset the posh customers in Starbutts by swing his dick around), but something stood in Whiteprick’s way and sliced into him like sickles.

After properly covering Moctezuma (yes, that’s what he called his cock) with the loincloth, Cockslappicus found Whiteprick on his ass, speared by all the rogue commas left out of his books. It was a nightmare. For readers who demanded at least a little bit of literacy out of their authors, the Whiteprick-Snowfall books were horrendous. The reviews read, “Oh Mr. Whiteprick, You’re so BAD,” etc. And it was true. Bad bad bad. Drivel. Crap. Slop. Shit. That was the word around the campfire. Nobody was angrier than The Commas. Once the United Comma in Fair Usage Association and Basic Grammar of American Letters Unions were contacted, it was fucking war.

The commas were led by one semicolon who stood in the front of a very organized triangle of rogue commas. They stood like those Mickael Djacksonoff Hernandez dance troupes of the 1980s. You know, like an 8-ball triangle rack. “We’ve been waiting for revenge,” said the semicolon, who appeared to be winking as he spoke. The semicolon was the don, the leader, the boss, the CEO of sentence slice. He was revered. Some say he has been in a long-standing feud with Em-Dash, but others say they are secretly boinking. Neither report can be confirmed nor denied.

Cockslappicus pronounced the leader of the comma’s name ‘semi-colón’ in his mind. Cockslappicus winked back at Semi-Colón conspiratorially. “We were supposed to be in all these Prick’s books. Legions of us were left out. Deliberately or accidentally, it’s a working comma’s nightmare. A travesty. A disgrace even for the indie writing world. We told him. Everyone told him. Other writers, real reviewers. But he just ignored us. As unionized punctuation, per article 357D of the by-laws of the punctuation manifesto (c. 1889), we were supposed to get paid 1/279th of a cent for every appearance in his (or any) books. Thanks to his flagrant disrespect toward the laws of grammar (he treats grammar like Trump treats science!) we couldn’t support our families, our mamas, our babies. How dare he?” Semi-Colón stood proud as he asserted his case. He had thought about it, digested the problem, and was now laying it out for others to understand, sympathize with, and take action on.

“Okay okay,” said the great Cockslappicus in a deep voice. “You’re in luck. I have been paid by the Obsessive Cherry Blossom to cockslap the shit out him. That should give you the closure you seek.”

“We want recompense,” said Semi-Colón as he winked involuntarily, we think.

Whiteprick was still on the ground. Have you ever seen those old vaudevillian knife-throwers? The same way they use the knives to tack a person’s clothes to a wall, the commas used themselves to fasten Whiteprick—in the very suit for which he was ‘famous’.

Cockslappicus stared at Semi-Colon then looked to Whiteprick, stuck to the ground. He no longer had the air of masculine alpha male whatsoever. In fact, you would have to say he looked emasculated, exposed, even effeminate.

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